


taken by the wind

by scrunchyharry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Halloween, Love at First Sight, M/M, No Smut, Oblivious Harry, One Shot, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Witch Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:36:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8407225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrunchyharry/pseuds/scrunchyharry
Summary: When he decided to move to London with his sister, Harry thought he would finally get to learn how to control his magic. He couldn't possibly have predicted that he would fall for her neighbour.Or the one where Harry is a clumsy witch and Louis is making everything worse just by existing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone remember Sabrina the Teenage Witch? What about Bewitched? This is what I was going for with this, much more than Charmed or, like, Hocus Pocus. Harmless, clumsy witches in love.
> 
> The title is from Rhiannon by Fleetwood Mac, both because Stevie Nicks said this song is named after a Welsh witch, but also because Stevie Nicks is most probably an actual witch.

For centuries, it had been accepted unquestioningly that there were no male witches. Witches could only mother daughters, and only one, at that. Just the one, who would carry on the legacy. It was how it went, and how it had gone, for as long as there had been witches—as for how long that was, the lore was unclear. Some claimed there had been witches for as long as there had been humans; others, that they had been born in the Middle Ages, in the dark centuries when the line between medicine and witchcraft had been conveniently placed so that when one failed, the other could be blamed for it – read: the Black Plague; read: personal hygiene; read: bloodletting and leeches. For others, it was all due to one Hephzibah Parnell, from Norwich, who in 1704 had sold her soul and made a pact to serve a demon in exchange for a pair of shoes to wear to a ball. 

Whichever origin one believed witches to have, the consensus was always that there were only female witches, and always only one.

That is, until Harry was born.

To say that his birth was unexpected would be a lie; witches had adapted to modernity quite well, thank you very much, and so his mother appeared, from an outsider’s perspective, like an entirely normal woman. Harry’s birth was unexpected, then, not in a _I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant_ style, at least. It did come as a surprise, though, because Anne had already had her daughter. She was not supposed to be, well, _fertile_ , anymore, but on and on, day after day, the baby grew in strength and, she could feel it, in magic.

When the doctor announced to her that she was expecting a boy, she knew she would have to hide him. Perhaps there had been other boy witches, in the past, all of them hidden to perpetuate the myth that witches only birthed other witches. Perhaps it was part of the tradition to conceal boys, or give them away—not that she would give Harry away, mind. They’d have to pry him out of her cold, dead fingers before they could take him away.

Concealment was thus the solution.

The moment he was born, she cast every spell she knew that could be used to hide something from someone, from a simple spell that diverted one’s attention away from him the moment he was noticed, to complicated potions and incantations that required she borrow an old grimoire from the Bodleian library. It should probably be written “borrow”, actually, because her kind of borrowing meant breaking it free from the chains that had bound it to the shelf since the Middle Ages. 

In her defence, the grimoire was very grateful to be taken out for the first time in half a dozen centuries, so, really, she was doing it a favour.

And so while Gemma was raised into her magic, Harry was raised out of his, for his own protection. It was safer if he was normal, and Anne could always pretend that he was a poor orphan she’d adopted, if questions were asked. The fact that he was a carbon copy of her would have to be explained on a whim, if she ever had to, because without the pressure of having to lie to save his life, she couldn’t find an excuse that was plausible.

Little did she know that Harry was learning, too, on his own. Growing up, he was rapidly brimming with magic, his potential unused and unspent, and accidents started happening around him as his magic started throwing tantrum for being ignored so much. While his mother and sister lived in harmony with theirs, Harry had to constantly struggle to get it to stay quiet and he resorted to ignoring it, most of the time, even as ceramic plant pots would explode or glasses of water would boil whenever he so much as sneezed in a room adjacent to where they were.

That is not to say that Harry grew up to be resentful of the way he had been raised. He understood the risks, understood what was at stakes, and so he kept quiet and bid his time until he turned eighteen and could go live on his own. The plan morphed, as the years went by, and it took its final shape when Gemma announced she had found a job and a flat in London six months before he would celebrate his eighteenth birthday. He would go live with her as soon as he had, and there he would be able to mend his relationship with his magic. Away from his mother, he was no longer a threat to her if he was found to be a witch. Nothing could trace him back to her. They would both be free.

It took Harry about eight months to gather his supplies – and his courage – for the big move, and on the morning of October 1st, Harry grabbed his suitcase, which spilt his content on the floor just for the sake of aggravating him, repacked his suitcase, and took off towards London with a train ticket in one hand and a carefully packed lunch in his backpack, a farewell present from his mother. Harry would like to be cool and modern and say he ran away against his mother’s wishes, but quite the opposite. She, too, welcomed the freedom his exodus to London would bring her.

Gemma’s flat was in North London, half of the second floor of a red brick house overlooking a park, and as Harry neared it, pulling his disagreeable suitcase along the pavement, he could feel his magic preening, the sensation halfway between a bird puffing its feathers in happiness and a cat’s purr, causing the colourful leaves on the ground to rustle excitedly. He would be happy, here.

His furniture had already been shipped ahead of his arrival and so all he needed to do, once he reached the right address, was to haul his suitcase up to the second floor. It had been an arduous journey from Cheshire to there; his insecurities and fears regarding this new chapter in his life manifesting themselves in his suitcase refusing to behave on tasks as simple as “rolling” and “not weighing a ton when I need to put you in the overhead rack, for heaven’s sake, I won’t drop you, _calm down_.”

Assessing the stairs for a moment, Harry cast a glance at his suitcase. “Are you going to let me bring you upstairs without fussing, now? I promise I won’t kick you if you do this for me,” he told it, knowing very well that it wasn’t the suitcase’s fault, per se, but his own. It was easier, though, to blame an enchanted object than his own psyche. Much easier.

“Who’re you talking to?” came a voice, startling Harry.

“My suitcase,” he answered blithely before he could stop the words from coming out. He winced. “I mean, metaphorically.”

Harry turned to look at his interlocutor and froze, feeling a blush rising in his cheeks at the sight of the shorter boy with the effortlessly stylish haircut, all tousled strands and heavy fringe, standing next to him. He was wearing a hoodie from a football team that Harry had never heard of, and it wasn’t his thing, boys into sports, but he might learn to like it. Easily. 

When Harry looked up from his unintentional examination, the boy was still smiling at him.

“Metaphorically? I don’t follow.”

Harry flustered even more. “I meant… I wasn’t expecting a reply.”

The boy giggled as though Harry had said something hilarious and shook his head, his eyes crinkled in a way that made Harry consider starting a new religion to worship the sight.

“You’re Gemma’s brother, yeah? She told me you’d get here today. I’m Louis, by the way. Our flats share the second floor, look, that’s my half,” he said, pointing up at the windows on the left of the house. “Need a hand bringing this up?” 

“H-Harry,” Harry stuttered out, swallowing thickly. 

“Pleasure meeting you, H-Harry,” Louis teased. “So, suitcase?”

Harry nodded, grabbing the handle of his suitcase and pulling it up to the front door. “It might be quite heavy,” he warned.

“Might? You’re not sure?” Still, Louis had a teasing smile on his face and still, Harry felt like an idiot.

He didn’t answer, instead focusing on grabbing the side handle to wrestle the case inside of the staircase. As he’d predicted, it had decided to weigh what must have been roughly the mass of a baby manatee. Louis came to his rescue, grabbing the bottom as Harry started his slow ascent of the steep stairs.

“What have you got in there, rocks?” Louis asked, voice strained under the effort.

“No, no, just my clothes.”

He regretted the words as soon as they came out because something in his nerves to be around Louis triggered his magic and the suitcase flew open, pouring out its contents in the stairs. Namely, his underwear. So many pairs of his underwear. Harry would rather not put too much thought into why exactly his magic decided that Louis needed to see his pants.

“Oh, shit, I think the zipper must have broken,” Louis said with a laugh. “Let’s get it up and then we’ll pick up the mess.”

“I can do it on my own,” Harry rushed to say, hoping and praying that Louis hadn’t noticed exactly what had landed at his feet.

“No, no, I insist. It’s probably my fault, I mustn’t have carried it properly.”

Harry said nothing, letting Louis help him reach the second floor landing. There was nothing he could say, nothing that wouldn’t make him sound demented. He couldn’t explain the situation by saying that his magic, channelled through the suitcase, had detected that Harry was attracted to Louis and had thus tried to play the wingman any way it could. He just couldn’t.

“That’s unfortunate,” Louis commented as he crouched down to pick up the clothes. “It had to be your pants, hm? Nice choice, by the way,” he added as he handed Harry a purple pair with little bats printed on them, a present he’d had for his birthday. “Very in season.”

Harry still said nothing, too mortified for words. He focused on the task at hand, which was collecting his pants from the stairs, and when that was done, he muttered his thanks to Louis before hurrying inside of Gemma’s flat to hide his shame.

It figured that the first boy he meets that he finds attractive, he manages to mess things up before he’s even had a chance to try. Sighing loudly, he lay on his back on his bed, spread eagle, allowing himself a moment or two to wallow in his own social ineptitude. 

His pity party was interrupted by a rustling sound, like the dead leaves from earlier, but drier, almost like—pages of an old book being turned. Frowning, zigzagging between the boxes in his room, Harry followed the sound, which took him outside of Gemma’s bedroom.

It would be a terrible start to their cohabitation if he entered her room uninvited not even an hour after moving in, wouldn’t it? And yet, it sounded like her grimoire was beckoning him, ready to offer him the spell that would solve his problems.

He’d seen it happen before for Gemma or his mother, their magic finding what it needed to be channelled before they’d had time to come up with a solution of their own. He’d never been allowed close enough to a grimoire for it to happen, though, and he was curious.

Lingering for a few seconds more outside, Harry finally decided to go in. His eyes were immediately drawn to the old volume opened on Gemma’s desk. It wasn’t the one his mother had “borrowed”, that one she’d kept, but rather the heirloom one, they one every woman in his family had used since time immemorial. Approaching it cautiously, Harry sat at the desk and looked at the page.

 _Bróðorlufu drync_ it said, and Harry sighed.

“I don’t know why you think I read Old English. No one has for half of your life,” he told the grimoire, rolling his eyes. 

With an offended bristle of its pages, the grimoire conceded and the letters began rearranging themselves before Harry’s eyes, shuffling until they formed words he could read.

 _Love potion_.

A love potion, yes. That might fix what he’d ruined with Louis earlier. Nodding to himself, liking the idea more and more, Harry read the ingredients. 

_A hair from the beloved’s head_  
_A drop of blood from the lovesick_  
_Dried jasmine flowers_  
_Dried rose petals_  
_A vanilla pod_  
_Cinnamon sticks_  
_Fresh water_

Simple enough, except for the hair. He had no idea how it used to be in the Middle Ages and whether it was easier then to get a hair from someone else’s head, but in this day and age, unless Harry wanted to appear as a stalker, there was no way he could get it without breaking into Louis’ flat.

He’d have to find another way before he resorted to that.

-

His other way presented itself to him the next day, not even an hour after Gemma had left for work. Harry was attempting to make himself breakfast using nothing but his magic for the first time when there was a knock at the door, which threw his concentration off and made him drop the pan he was levitating as he tried to coax it into flipping the pancake that was slowly burning in it.

“I heard a crash,” Louis said when Harry opened the door, “are you okay?”

“Yes, I d-dropped a pan.” Harry cleared his throat. “May I help you?”

“Let me turn that question around, how may _I_ help you? You just moved in, I figured you didn’t know anyone in London yet and you could use help to unpack!” Louis said, smiling in a way that made Harry’s magic preen inside of him.

Harry put a hand to the waistband of his trousers in case they decided to drop to the floor under Louis’ charm.

“Hm… yes. Sure,” Harry replied, stepping back to let Louis in, his mind going a hundred miles an hour trying to find a way to get the hair he so desperately needed to have a chance with Louis. “Do you want pancakes?”

“Sure!” Louis chirped, looking around curiously. “Gemma never invited me in, it’s like I stepped through the looking glass, everything is mirrored.”

“Hm,” Harry replied, bending down to clean up the mess. He cast a glance towards Louis and, seeing him distracted, used a spell to speed up the process. He urged the melted butter that had spilt from the pan to go back into it quicker, worried that Louis might catch him talking to objects once again.

“Do you need help with that?” Louis asked, his voice coming from much to close.

Harry yelped and sprang up, dropping the pan once more and cursing under his breath. This time, Louis bent down to retrieve it for him.

“You’re quite clumsy, hm?” he said with a laugh. “I’d offer to cook, but I’m hopeless at pancakes. And at most things, really. I get by on cereals and pasta.”

With a tense smile, Harry nodded. “I’ll cook. Just…” He considered for a second asking Louis to set the table, but he remembered that he’d have to fetch jelly and syrup from the fridge and that it was currently filled with Gemma’s potions supply. He doubted he could find an explanation to the presence of pickled frogs and cured newt tails alongside strawberry jelly. “Just sit and wait.”

Louis obeyed, sitting at the table. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”

“Sorry, I’m just… preoccupied, with the move and all that. There’s a lot to do.”

“It’s why I’m here! Anything you need done, just ask! I know how stressful it is to move out on your own for the first time,” he added, softer. “If you want me to put up shelves or build IKEA furniture, it’s fine, too! Anything, really. It’s my day off.”

Harry hummed, focusing on the pancakes, his cheeks on fire. 

“Unless…” Louis began, his enthusiasm dampened, “unless you don’t want my help. Which is fine, too, I realise that I just barged in without really giving you a choice, I just thought… well I thought you could use a friend in London.”

“I’m glad you offered,” Harry answered, turning to smile at him. “I’m just a bit odd, that’s all.”

Louis laughed. “I like odd.” He punctuated the statement with a wink and the shock startled Harry’s magic, setting fire to the pan he was ignoring on the stove. 

Harry turned his attention to it, muttering soothingly to calm it down, talking as much to the pan as to himself, ignoring Louis’ comment that Harry appeared to be as useless as him in the kitchen, after all.

Eventually, Harry managed to cook enough decent pancakes to feed them both and he brought them to the table. Louis dug in with appetite and it made Harry’s magic tingle warmly to see him enjoy something that Harry had made.

Harry tried, all day, to get a hair from Louis’ head, but it seemed like Louis was purposely staying just out of reach. He was proficient, though, his enthusiasm for helping Harry almost contagious, and the day might have been perfect if Harry had managed to keep his magic in check. He’d never learned how, though, especially not in the presence of boys so cute he might cry.

Every frame that Louis hung would fall to the floor as soon as he’d turned his back to it. Bookshelves wouldn’t hold together, their shelves collapsing the second Louis was done nailing them. Posters would slip and fall down the walls, flower pots would topple over and spill their content and the legs of chairs would give out despite no one sitting on them. Harry appreciated his magic’s efforts to keep Louis within the house so he could get one of his hair, but it was becoming ridiculous and, frankly, it was too much pressure to handle.

“If I believed in ghosts, I’d call a priest right about now,” Louis commented with a laugh as a frame clattered to the floor for the sixth time. 

“Maybe the house is cursed,” Harry added, keeping his eyes peeled to the drawer he was painstakingly organising so that Louis wouldn’t see the guilt etched on his face. “Do you have similar problems in your flat?”

“Except for the odd change in water temperature and the creaking pipes, not really. Is it ghosts, is it faulty plumbing? We’ll never know. I think I’m safe, though. It’s always your flat that has weird things happening, like sometimes when I come home late I see the lights flashing or there’s like, smoke coming from under the door.”

Harry let out a shrill, incredibly fake laugh as his nerves skyrocketed through the roof. “My sister loves candles,” he blurted out, realising a second too late that not a single candle was in sight at the moment. “She keeps them all in her room, though, she doesn’t want me to burn them when she’s gone, they’re expensive. It’s why the lights flicker, yeah? And the smoke. That’s the candles. Lots of candles.”

Harry was sweating.

Louis cocked his head to the side, visibly sceptical. “All right. No ghosts, then. I hit a nerve, it seems.” He let out a small, uncomfortable laugh. “I think we’re pretty much done here, yeah?”

Casting a quick look around, just in time to see the side panel of a bookshelf wobbling threateningly, Harry nodded. “Yes, thanks for your help.”

“Don’t mention it,” Louis replied, shrugging dismissively. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Sure. We’re neighbours,” Harry replied, lamely. So, so lamely.

With a nod, Louis waved and then made his exit. Harry let out a sigh and glared at a poster that was slowly sliding down the wall.

“He’s gone, you can stop panicking,” Harry snapped, waving his hand to put it back in place. “You could have all cooperated, seriously.”

Once he had fixed everything that went wrong under Louis’ presence, Harry cast a quick spell to see if any of Louis’ hair might not have fallen on the floor, by sheer luck. The spells returned nothing, but Harry expected it. 

He was going to have to break into Louis’ flat.

-

The thing with Harry’s magic was that he never had the chance to make it trust him. He couldn’t quite describe how it felt, but sometimes, it panicked and doubted the choices he made, and it’d try its best to hinder him instead of working towards success alongside Harry. He was jealous, incredibly so, when he saw the way Gemma so seamlessly coexisted with hers, the two of them working in perfect harmony towards common goals. Meanwhile, Harry’s attempts were always jerky and full of false starts; it was a bit like driving stick for the first time, on ice, up a hill. He wasn’t going anywhere with it; even worse, sometimes, it felt like he was going backwards.

He needed to tame it, though, because he couldn’t hope to break into Louis’ flat without magic. He didn’t have the kind of childhood that might have taught him to pick locks and he was not about to break a window and make Louis conscious that someone was inside. All he wanted was to find his hair brush, pull one hair from it, and be gone. That was it. Just one, tiny, harmless hair.

He took a week to learn Louis’ schedule, a week spent at the window to know when he left and when he came back. A week of awkwardly waving at him as the burnt orange and bright red leaves of the trees in front of the house were swept away by the wind, making it more obvious every day that Harry was spying on him.

One thing that Harry learned was that Louis took his shower at almost the same time every day. Around ten o’clock, nightly, Harry would hear the pipes creak and clang as Louis turned on the water, and he’d count the minutes he had until he was finished. It usually took him around fifteen minutes. 

He would like to say that knowing when Louis showered was useful for his plan to break in, but, really, it wasn’t. He was just, well—he didn’t know why he needed to know that part of his schedule. He’d rather not dwell on it too much. He should just focus on preparing his cup of tea and keep his eyes peeled to the dark liquid swirling inside of it rather than imagine Louis in the shower. It was entirely better for his life if he didn’t think about his sopping wet skin glistening, covered in sweet-smelling suds, hands roaming over his naked body and—

Harry felt a jolt, like someone was tugging on the back of his brain and pulling forward, and in an instant he was so dizzy that he had to close his eyes so he didn’t retch. He saw a flash of light through his closed eyelids and then he heard rushing water, like a waterfall, or like—like a _shower_.

He opened his eyes in a rush and found himself face to face with Louis, in his shower. Harry gasped and his eyes widened as panic seized him while he waited for Louis to notice that the neighbour had just appeared in his shower, but as the seconds went by, it was becoming apparent that he wasn’t visible for Louis. His magic, under the assumption that his imagination needed sights a bit more concrete, had sent his spirit out of his body and inside of Louis’ claw-foot tub to watch him shower.

Harry kept his eyes resolutely fixed on the ceiling despite the temptation to look down and get an eyeful of everything he’d been imagining for days. He didn’t know if his spirit could blush, but he nevertheless felt like he was blushing. _Holy shit_ , this wasn’t what he’d planned or imagined or intended, like, _ever_.

Harry closed his eyes to try to return to his body, but he wasn’t quite sure how to do it. It was hard to focus, too, because Louis was humming to himself. Harry risked opening one eye to look and realised with a violent mix of delight and horror that Louis was touching himself, right there, in front of him. Not literally in front of him, of course, he didn’t know that Harry was there, but Harry _was_ there, and so the only thing separating him from his wildest desires with Louis was the metaphysical representation that his spirit made of the action of closing his eyes. 

Louis was making noises, such lovely noises, and Harry was losing his mind, he was panicking that he couldn’t seem to return to his body and he yearned to watch Louis touch himself, but that was overstepping way too many boundaries, he never meant for things to go this far and if Louis could just _stop_ he might be able to return to his body and then bathe in bleach to try and cleanse away the past few minutes.

His magic, as helpful as ever, picked up on the wrong part of his desire and instead of sending him back to his body, it chose to make Louis stop in the form of cutting the hot water. With a terrible screech as the pipes protested, the shower turned from a comfortably steamy haven to a skinny dip in the Atlantic Ocean in January and Louis let out a shout, scrambled to turn off the water, and gasped and coughed in shock.

At the same time, Harry felt from a distance Gemma grabbing a handful of his curls and pulling him back, holding tight enough to hurt. Harry leaned into the pain, feeling his spirit rushing back to his body, even though he could still see Louis staggering out of the shower and reaching for a towel.

Gemma chose that moment to slap him across the face. That one, he felt sharply and in a blink, he was back in his body, gasping under the pain that overcame him, like his cheek had been set on fire.

“What is wrong with you?! You can’t even levitate objects properly, yet! Why the fuck did you think you could scry?! Why did you need to anyway?!” Gemma snapped, pointing to the cup of tea in front of Harry.

“I…” Harry stuttered, blinking in confusion to once more inhabit a physical vessel. “I—what?”

“Scrying! Spiritual travel! Were you seeking auguries?! We’re not seers!”

“I didn’t scry!” Harry protested. He’d only spaced out while drinking tea and—oh. He might have been staring into his cup when he felt his spirit leave his body. That might have been what happened. “I didn’t do it on purpose!” he corrected. “I was just—thinking about Louis and it got out of control.”

“Louis? Who’s Louis?! Our neighbour Louis?!” she asked, fuming. Harry took it without complaining.

“He takes a shower every night around this time. I heard the pipes and it made me think of him.”

Gemma glared at him and the air in the flat began crackling with static, making her platinum hair fly up. “You got stuck scrying because you wanted spy on your crush in the shower?! What next, you’ll summon a demon to find a job?! This isn’t a game, Harry! Fuck, you shouldn’t even be using your magic, yet, you can’t control it! If Mum knew you use it to creep on our neighbour!”

“And you’re not teaching me how!” Harry replied, bristled. His magic felt red hot and he winced, bracing himself for the inevitable outburst. “It’s why it’s uncontrollable! It keeps messing up everything! I never meant to creep on him!”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t use it at all!”

The window facing the street exploded with a bang, making them both crouch and cover their heads as a strong wind was engulfed through the window, pushing rain, leaves and shards of glass in their direction.

“Did you do this?!” Gemma asked with a gasp.

“Not on purpose!”

With a wave of her hand, Gemma put a windowpane back in the frame. The sudden change in pressure made Harry’s ears pop. She used another spell to clean the flat and then sighed, sitting down heavily at the table.

“Look,” she finally said, running a hand through her hair, “you can keep experimenting with magic to learn to control it, but no more life-threatening exercises, yeah? _I_ don’t even dare to try scrying because it’s too dangerous.” She paused, eyeing him. “Did you manage it, though?”

“Yeah. I was… hm. In his shower. With him. And he was…” Harry moved his closed fist a few times in the air, blushing.

She laughed, shaking her head. “I am both impressed and exasperated with you. I can’t believe you managed to accidentally scry to spy on our neighbour as he wanked. That’s like… using a gun to kill a spider.” She chuckled. 

When Harry opened his mouth to protest, she waved a hand to cut his voice and headed to her room to change, leaving him mute and frustrated.

-

It was just Harry’s luck that Louis, thanks to an accidental cold shower, ended up bedridden with a cold right around the time that he felt confident and/or hopeless enough to consider breaking and entering as a viable option. Unless Harry found a spell to make himself invisible and noiseless, he would have to wait until Louis went back to work before he could get a hair.

Or, he could be a good neighbour. The idea hit him as he was running errands and he walked by a farmer’s market. Without thinking it over, Harry bought a couple of squashes, roughly three pounds of carrots and enough potatoes to feed a small army and, his provisions in hand, he made his way home with the plan to make soup and bring a bowl over to Louis.

It was genius, really, and he marvelled at his ingenuity while he waved his hands and muttered spells to orchestrate the cooking process. He’d gotten better at this and could now do almost everything that went into the process of cooking. The only steps he still did manually were the ones that involved knives. He didn’t yet trust his magic in possession of sharp objects.

A couple of hours later, Harry knocked on Louis’ door with a steaming bowl of soup balanced in his hands. He waited patiently for the door to open, and then less patiently when there was still no answer five minutes later. He tried the knob and found it locked, but he knew Louis was home. He must be asleep.

Harry hesitated for a few seconds before he waved his fingers to unlock the door and step inside. Quietly, he made his way through the messy living room towards the back of the flat to the door at the very end of the hallway. He opened it and peered inside, finding Louis fast asleep under a mound of blankets. 

Crossing the room on his tiptoes to avoid making the floor creak, Harry placed the bowl on Louis’ nightstand and conjured up a piece of paper and a pen to write a note, quickly scribbling: 

_We have leftovers, I hope you like soup._  
Take care,  
Your neighbour. 

Harry watched him sleep for a few more seconds, his heart swelling at how ridiculously beautiful he was, and then he quickly plucked a hair from his head and left, grinning to know he could, at last, begin his potion.

-

It took another two days before Harry had the chance to begin brewing the potion. He knew he needed a full day alone, a whole day when he wouldn’t be bothered by Gemma and her inquiring questions. Besides, it was highly possible that she wouldn’t let him use her cauldron if he asked, so it was better if he used it behind her back.

The moment she was out of the door for work, Harry pulled the cauldron out of the closet where Gemma kept it and pulled it to the middle of the living room. He shut the curtains to every window in the flat and gathered his supply, laying them down on the floor next to the cauldron. Flowers, vanilla, fresh water he gathered from a spring that it took him three hours to find, the cinnamon, and a needle for his blood. Lastly, Harry fetched the grimoire from Gemma’s room and made the final trip to the living room. He conjured a small fire underneath the cauldron to heat it up and then began following the recipe.

It was surprisingly easy to follow, especially for a recipe that promised to bring eternal love and happiness. He frowned, reading the instructions ten times over, and then got to work cutting and mixing his ingredients. It took him all of five minutes to finish the first steps and then he had to let it reduce to a syrup, which the recipe said would take roughly an hour. Keeping an eye on his cauldron, Harry settled in front of the television and practiced zapping with a wave of his hand while it simmered.

Half an hour in, there was a knock at the door. Weary, Harry used the bull’s eye to see who was there and he gasped to see Louis standing on the porch. Opening the door just enough to poke his head out, Harry smiled nervously.

“Hey, neighbour! I got your soup! I have no idea how you got it to my room, though, did I let you in and forgot in my fever hallucinations?” Louis still sounded a bit under the weather, but some colour has returned to his face, at least.

“Y-you did, yes. That is exactly what happened,” Harry said in a deadpan, lying through his teeth.

“It was delicious, I loved it. I’m bringing back the bowl.” He handed it to Harry, smiling. “I washed it and all.”

Harry took the bowl, not quite sure what to say. He bit his lip. 

“Are you busy?” Louis asked, still smiling. “I was going out for lunch, do you want to come along? I’m famished, I haven’t had a full meal in days.”

“I…” Harry peered at his bubbling cauldron. “I’m busy, I’ve got… I’m cooking.”

“Anything I might like?” Louis asked, wiggling his eyebrows. “It explains the curls, it’s the steam from the pots,” he added, tugging at one of Harry’s long curls.

“It’s not for me,” he blurted out. “It’s for a… a food drive. For my sister’s job. She doesn’t have time to cook so I’m doing it for her.”

“Oh.” Louis’ smile faltered for a second. “All right, then. Better luck next time. I’ll see you around, Harry!”

And with that he was gone, disappearing down the stairs and out of the door. A draft of cold air billowed in as he left, reaching Harry and making him shiver. He went back to his cauldron, pleased to see that it was thickening nicely.

The next time Louis invited him for lunch, he would be able to subtly pour the potion in his drink and everything would finally be better.

-

The next day, around 11am, there was a knock at the door.

“Hey!” Louis said when Harry opened. “So I haven’t yet had a pumpkin spice latte this year and it’s a bloody tragedy, do you want to go on a Starbucks run with me?”

Harry smiled in return. “I’ve never had one in my life. Let me grab my coat.”

“You’ve never had one!” Louis squawked, stepping through the door while Harry went to fetch his coat. “How have you survived?!”

Turning his back to Louis, Harry slipped the small bottle containing his potion in the inner pocket of his jacket and then he joined him by the door. “I can’t miss what I never had.”

“We’ll fix that, it’s a tragedy!” Louis exclaimed.

Louis went down the stairs first and Harry followed, and he let out a soft gasp as Louis took his arm when they stepped outside. When Louis noticed him looking, he smiled.

“It’s so you don’t get lost,” he explained. “You’re not used to the big city, yet.”

“I’ve been around the neighbourhood, I can get by,” Harry said, blushing.

“Oh.” Louis let go of his arm. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you. The Starbucks is this way,” he said, pointing to the right. 

Harry nodded, choosing not to say anything even though he longed to grab Louis’ arm once again. “So, hm, you had a cold?” he asked instead.

“Yes! It was the worst, and I know it’s because the other night, the water went cold, like, I told you about my haunted plumbing, well it acted up again and the water turned cold and my bathroom was freezing—isn’t it _so_ cold nowadays? Like October is hitting us hard, it’s gorgeous all the colours, but I miss summer—anyway, yeah, the water turned icy cold and I guess I must have been on the edge of a cold and that just sent me straight to it and I was bedridden for a few days.” Louis shrugged and kicked at a pile of dead leaves, sniffling and burrowing deeper into his scarf. “I’m better, now, though.”

“Sorry about the water,” Harry said, biting his lip.

“It’s not your fault!” Louis laughed, turning to walk backwards so he could look at Harry. “Autumn suits you well.”

Harry lifted his shoulders and tried to hide in his scarf, intimidated. “What do you mean?”

“Just that you look lovely against the autumn _foliage_ ,” he replied, scrunching up his face on the last word like it pained him to say something so pretentious.

“You mean I look like a dead leaf?”

“N-no,” Louis faltered, frowning. “It’s not what I said.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. “It was meant as a compliment.”

“Oh, well… thank you.” Harry tried to correct. He bit his lip. “You’re sweet.”

“Not as sweet as the drink you’re about to taste!” Louis bounced back, a smile returning to his face. “It’ll change your life! After you,” he said as he held the door opened for Harry.

They made their way inside the store and Louis led him to the counter, ordering for the both of them before Harry could even locate the menu. Harry watched him talk to the barista, ever so charming, and his magic fluttered and tingled, making the lights in the store flicker. 

“Come on, we’ll get our drinks over there,” Louis said, pulling Harry by the arm until they were waiting at the end of the counter. He lifted two paper bags to show Harry. “I got us scones as well, they’re so good, you’ll see. I love everything pumpkin flavoured, do you? I know it’s cliché and all that, but I can’t help it. I love me some autumn spices.”

Harry smiled at him. “I do, too. I make a good pumpkin pie, according to my mum.”

“Yeah? I’d love to taste it.”

“Oh, hm, I haven’t made one, there’s nothing to taste at the moment.”

Louis let out a small sigh and gave Harry a tight smile. “You’re something else, hm?”

Before Harry could talk, he was interrupted by the barista: “Two grande pumpkin spice lattes for Harry and Sally?”

“That’s us!” Louis chirped, grabbing their drinks and making his way for a table.

“Your name isn’t Sally…”

“It’s a movie. Forget it,” Louis muttered, shrugging as he took a seat. “Go on, take a sip! It’s a big moment in your life!”

Harry sat down opposite him and lifted the cup, sniffing it curiously. He was going through the motions almost on autopilot as his mind was trying to come up with a way to pour some of the potion in Louis’ drink without him noticing. The only solution, really, was to send him to the restrooms, and so Harry focused his magic on making him feel like he had to pee.

“Aren’t you going to take a sip?” Louis asked, fidgeting on his seat. He grimaced. “Go on, hurry, I want to see before I have to use the loo!”

Harry nodded and took a sip, smiling as the flavours hit his taste buds. “It’s really good,” he said, nodding approvingly. “Thanks for taking me with you today.”

“The pleasure is all mine. I’ll be right back,” Louis hurried to say before he got up and bolted for the restrooms.

Perhaps Harry had focused his magic a bit too much.

While he was gone, Harry brought his drink closer and took off the lid before taking the bottle out of his jacket. He pulled the stopper out and winced at the overpowering smell of flowers that wafted from it. Harry poured a few drops of it into Louis’ drink, putting the lid back on and starting on his scone as he waited for Louis to return.

“Sorry about that,” he said as he did, sitting down once more and taking a sip of his drink. He grimaced and put it back down roughly. “Okay, mine’s disgusting. Can I taste yours?” Before Harry could reply, Louis took a sip. “Okay, what the hell, mine tastes like perfume. Hang on, I’ll ask for a new one.”

Harry bit his lip to hold back his squawk of protest and, powerless, he watched as Louis took his drink back to the barista. He doubted that a single sip was enough to make the potion work.

He had been so close to achieving his goal, so close to making Louis fall in love with him. His failed attempt put a damper on his day and he found it hard to enjoy being with Louis. He could tell he appeared distant and aloof and yet, he couldn’t seem to get over his disappointment.

Louis was perfect through it all, acting like he didn’t even notice Harry’s gloomy mood. The weather did, though, and the bright and sunny day gradually turned overcast and a cold, steady rain began falling.

In all honesty, though, Harry was being more dramatic than necessary. He did have fun, despite his failure. He lost count of the number of scones and cups of coffees they had while they talked and talked and talked, and Harry realised around hour four that he’d never really had a friend like Louis, someone to listen to whatever he felt like saying without showing signs of growing bored or annoyed. With the realisation came the sun, the sky clearing as a warm feeling spread through Harry’s chest, and Louis offered they go for a walk.

He took them through a park on the way back and the autumn colours were so bright they were obscene. Leaves and bared branches, covered in stray raindrops, seemed to glimmer in the sun. Inside of Harry, his magic was purring with happiness and it showed in bursts, in the dancing, dappled pattern of the sun through the leaves and in the chirping of birds all around them, and it seemed to Harry, when he looked at Louis, that he glowed from within.

Shoes damp from walking in the grass and amongst puddles, they arrived home with their cheeks reddened from the cold and with bright, shy smiles. Harry’s heart was hammering in his chest from how much he enjoyed Louis’ company, and he could almost forget the bitterness of having failed.

“I had a lovely day,” Louis said as they climbed the stairs to their respective flats. “We should do it again.”

“I agree,” Harry rushed to say, nodding.

Louis seemed to be waiting for something; he lingered for a moment, keys in hand, and for an instant it seemed like the universe was holding its breath, and then he smiled, rueful, and turned to unlock his door.

“I’ll see you around, Harry. Have a good day.”

“You, too,” Harry said, but Louis’ door was shut before he could finish his sentence.

-

The next day, Harry baked a pumpkin pie and laced it with the potion, pouring the entire bottle into it. He went heavy on the spices, and a quick tasting ensured him that Louis wouldn’t be able to detect any hint of flowers in it. It had to work, this time.

Once the pie was baked, he placed it on a crystal cake stand that he found at the back of a closet, covered in dust – Gemma inherited every family heirloom their mother had and then proceeded to store them in boxes until she found a use for them – and used a spell to make the smell of it travel through his door and into Louis’ flat. Hopefully, Louis was the kind of person to knock on his neighbour’s door when something smelled inviting.

It took all of five minutes for Louis to knock. Even if Harry was waiting for it, he jumped and yelped at the sound, dropping the bowl he was cleaning with magic in the sink with a loud bang.

“It’s unlocked!” he called, and he smiled at Louis as he entered. “I knew it’d be you.”

“I smelled pie!” Louis announced, grinning. “Were you inspired by our conversation yesterday?”

Harry nodded, taking out a plate. “I’m assuming you want a slice?”

“Obviously,” Louis said with a small laugh, joining Harry in the kitchen. “It smells heavenly. Did you really make that?”

“Hm, yeah. It’s a family recipe. Go sit at the table.”

“Yes, boss,” Louis replied, giggling as he made his way to the table. “For a second, I was scared it was just one of those fancy candles there that I smelled.”

As he spoke, he pointed to the several candles that Gemma kept on her coffee table, all smelling of complicated things like bergamot and citrus or, inexplicably, “sweater weather”, whatever that smelled like. Harry never dared lighting them in her absence, he wasn’t sure she had enchanted them to trap souls or whatever else she was studying at the moment.

Harry brought Louis his slice and sat opposite him, hands folded on the table to avoid gnawing on his nails to curb his nerves.

“I hope you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I will,” Louis said, cutting a big bite from it. “Aren’t you eating?” He shoved the bite in his mouth and immediately moaned, rolling his eyes in pretend ecstasy. “Oh my god,” he muttered, his mouth full.

“I’m not hungry. You like it?”

Louis moaned again, nodding emphatically. “It’s so good, wow,” he said once he’d swallowed. “It’s bloody witchcraft, I’ve never tasted anything better.”

Harry gulped and forced a smile. It _was_ witchcraft, that part Louis got right. Making the pie had been equal parts a recipe and spells, everything so Louis would want to eat enough of it to be affected by the potion.

It worked, too, because he asked for another slice as soon as he had finished his first, and Harry gave him a generous one, enough to make Louis ask in a giggle if he was trying to fatten him up to cook him later.

It threw off Harry. It was the second reference to witches that Louis made in under an hour. Perhaps it was an effect of the time, the Halloween zeitgeist infusing his thoughts with its themes. Or, perhaps, it was Gemma’s flat that infected his mind; after all, every nook and cranny was bursting with magic under their combined presence in it, not to mention how Gemma’s magic could feel that Harry’s shouldn’t exist and was rebelling against it, throwing the two of them off whenever it got too much and it got out of hand, slamming doors and breaking objects without any intent from either of them.

“I promise I won’t eat you,” Harry said, finding nothing else to say. He never managed to be clever or funny around Louis. It seemed like every time he opened his mouth, he made a fool of himself.

Louis’ gaze softened and he nodded. “Not all kinds of eating are bad, though,” he said, more to himself it seemed than to Harry. He caught himself and smiled. “The pie was delicious, neighbour! I’ve got to go get ready for work, but I’m sated and happy, thanks to you.” He patted his tummy and got up. He lingered for a second before he circled the table and pressed a kiss to Harry’s cheek. “I’ll see you around.”

The contact of Louis’ lips on his cheek made his magic burst inside of him, pushing to get out until he was shaking from it. He held it in with all of his might as he escorted Louis out, releasing everything the second the door was shut.

In a blast that rattled the chandelier and knocked chairs down, Harry’s magic exploded with glee at the kiss, radiating away from him like the detonation waves of a bomb, lighting candles, reviving plants and cleaning everything it touched. The windows shook and clanged from the change of pressure inside of the flat and for a second, Harry worried he would break one again.

It wasn’t the first explosion he’d caused, far from it, but, as he surveyed the results, he had to admit that it was the first positive one he’d had. Before, his explosions were caused by things his mother forbid him to do and had been destructive and violent. This one, on the other hand, was sourced in a happiness more profound than Harry had ever known.

The potion had worked, he couldn’t quite believe it; for once, a spell more complicated than a simple levitation had worked for him and he was about to have Louis all for himself, it would all work out and he was a damn good witch, at last. He cleaned up the mess he’d created, blowing out the candles when he noticed, with a chill of terror, that their flames were black. He’d rather not know.

Later that night, as he was getting ready to bed and Gemma was settling in with a book in an armchair by the window to watch the storm outside, she stopped him.

“Harry? Do you have something to tell me? Did something happen today?”

He frowned, trying to act cool. “No, why?”

“Well, it’s just that my book’s a bit odd, is all,” she explained, handing it to Harry.

Where it had once said _The Haunting of Hill House_ on the cover, it now said _Louis Louis Louis Louis Louis_. With a gasp of horror, Harry leafed through it and saw that every single word in the novel had been replaced by Louis’ name.

His explosion.

With a gasp, he took a book at random from the bookshelf and noticed the same thing. A third book confirmed to Harry that he had just exposed his feelings to Gemma and that he couldn’t expect her to let him live this down, that was for sure.

He fled to his bedroom, followed by her laughter. A few minutes later, he heard a sound like wind through a forest, and a quick look at the book on his nightstand told him Gemma had fixed his accidental spell. With a grunt, he pulled the covers over his head and tried to dissolve into the ether so he would stop feeling the burning ache of mortification.

-

The days passed and Harry’s nerves were threatening to burst as he waited for a sign that the potion had worked on Louis. They had coffee a few more times, almost daily actually, and yet Louis remained as normal as ever. The grimoire had promised eternal true love and yet, Louis was unchanged.

A whole week and four Starbucks trips after Harry had made the pie, he gave up and admitted defeat. It was a rainy Sunday, a week before Halloween, and Harry was hopeless. He needed to know if he’d messed up the recipe so he could do it again and Halloween would be the perfect night for it.

Well, not Halloween itself, in its modern-day version; witches weren’t fuelled by sweets. Rather, as his mother had taught him when he was a child, when he’d been old enough to be awakened in a fright by ghosts, it went back to Samhain, or Calan Gaeaf, or Kalan Gwav, or Kalan Goañv; different names for the pagan festival that marked the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter, the darkest day of the year, a time when the boundaries between this world and the other were the thinnest. Things bled through, on Halloween, and even as the celebration had changed form through the centuries, its nature had remained. On October 31st, witches were at their strongest, the collapse of boundaries allowing them to reach the maximum potential of their powers.

If Harry made the potion on Halloween, it couldn’t fail. There was no way. He just needed to know what had gone wrong the first time.

Knocking on Gemma’s door, he walked in when she said to. From where she was studying the grimoire on her bed, she motioned him closer.

“What can I do for you?”

“It’s about the grimoire, actually. I… I tried a potion in it and I think I messed it up because it didn’t work.”

“Which potion?” she asked, frowning. “I don’t like that you’re trying spells without me there. It could go wrong. Remember the books? Or the neighbour’s shower?”

Harry blushed and rolled his eyes. “Those weren’t intentional. I can do spells, Gemma. I’m not a child anymore.”

She shook her head and waved her hand dismissively. “What potion did you try?”

“The love potion. And it didn’t work.”

Gemma began by pressing her lips together, her eyes widening as her face contorted. Then, her shoulders started shaking and, a second later, she burst out laughing, hiding her face in her hands as she howled until she could no longer breathe.

“Oh my god, _Harry_. Are you serious?! You made the love potion? Is it why it smelled like a florist in the flat for days?!” She wiped her eyes, smudging her eyeliner in the process. “Oh, you stupid boy. The love potion is a sham. It’s—we used to sell spells, yeah? Way back,” she motioned backwards with her hand, “and people wanted to see what we did. The biggest request was for love potions, things don’t change, hm? So there’s this fake recipe in the grimoire, all it makes is potpourri. You can’t use magic to make someone love you, Harry. It doesn’t work that way.”

As Gemma spoke, Harry’s heart shattered and his stomach sunk. All hope was lost. He would never have Louis.

“Oh… I had hoped…”

“You’d hoped you could make the neighbour fall for you, hm? What about the traditional methods?”

“With what, my personality?” Harry huffed. “There’s no chance it’ll work. I can’t even talk like a normal person when I’m around him. It’s hopeless. Thanks for laughing, it really made me feel grand,” he continued, getting off her bed and walking to the door. “Perhaps Mum was right, perhaps I’m just not meant to be a witch. I was stupid enough to think I could use magic to create love where there could never be any.”

“Oh, Harry! Don’t—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Harry had slammed the door shut, headed for his room where he would hide under the covers until his life was over. Maybe he was being overdramatic, but the crux of the issue remained. He would never get Louis interested in him without magic. He would never have Louis.

-

With a final shivering sigh, a rustle of leaves and rain falling in sheets, October came to an end and Harry found himself readjusting his pointy hat before he knocked on Louis’ door.

A couple of days earlier, Louis had stopped Harry as he was coming home with groceries to ask if he’d like to accompany him to a Halloween party a friend of his was throwing. Harry had agreed, solely because he might as well go and get a final confirmation that his story with Louis was over before it started. He’d be forgotten by him within an hour, left alone by the snacks table while Louis flirted with other boys, and it would be the end of it. He vowed to get over his unrequited crush with the arrival of November. It would remain an October thing, to be washed away with the last remaining hints of greenery. 

“Harry!” Louis said when he opened the door, voice a little bit too loud. It echoed around the staircase. “You’re a wizard!”

For a second, Harry’s heart stopped and his blood froze in his veins, until he understood that Louis was referring to his costume, not to who he truly was. 

“A-a witch, actually,” Harry mumbled, adjusting his hat once more.

He had put on black jeans and a black button-up shirt to match the hat, and had a heavy black cape, lined with purple satin and covered in shimmering stars. Gemma had offered to deform his face and give him warts to complete the look, but he’d flipped her off.

“What’s the difference? Come in, come in, I’m almost ready,” he said, motioning Harry inside.

“Well, wizards are… it’s a bit _Harry Potter_ , no? I went for more, like… traditional.”

“So tonight we’re partying like it’s 1480, cool.”

“W-what?”

Louis gave him an uncertain smile. “It was a Spanish Inquisition joke, sorry. It was bad. I suppose nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.” Louis waited a beat, like Harry was supposed to have understood something specific, but nothing came to him. “Anyway…”

Harry could feel an uncomfortable silence settling in so he forced words out of his mouth, any words. “You study History, then?”

“Oh, no, I’m not in uni. I just watch a lot of documentaries.” Louis shrugged. “I’ll go put on my costume, you stay here. Try not to curse my flat, I’m already struggling with the pipes, it’s quite enough.”

Without another word, Louis left for his bedroom and Harry sat on the couch, looking around curiously. He didn’t dare walk around to inspect the room; he didn’t trust his magic in Louis’ things, he feared he might get too affected by a picture of him or a book and wreak havoc. It was better if he stayed where he was, sat on his hands, and waited.

A few minutes later, Louis came back, wearing tight red jeans and a black button down, with laced leather boots and a red blazer. On his head was perched a pair of horns and when he walked, a forked tail swung.

“It’s cute how our costumes match,” Louis said, swinging his hips so the tail moved like a pendulum. “Did you sell your soul to me, little witch?” he asked, sitting on the arm of the couch and grinning at Harry as he readjusted his hat for him.

“Hm, actually, witches don’t really sell their souls to the devil, it’s not how it works. Rather—” Harry began, prickled by the assumption that he was in league with the devil. That was _not_ how it worked.

“It’s fine, don’t—I was just joking. Let’s go.” Louis grabbed his arm and pulled him off the couch. “You’re something else.”

“I… I don’t know what you mean.”

Louis shrugged again, leading Harry to the door by hooking their arms together. “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad we’re going together. It’ll be fun.”

Harry couldn’t say that what he had at the party was _fun_ , per se. It wasn’t torture, far from it, and he was wrong to imagine that Louis would abandon him to be with prettier, better suited boys for him. On the contrary, Louis stuck by his side through the entire night, introducing him to everyone as the lovely boy who moved in next door, and “isn’t he just the cutest? With his little witch hat and his red cheeks, look how cute he is!”

Alcohol flowed freely, though, which might have helped Harry loosen up a bit.

Well, “a bit” would be a bit of an understatement. He loosened up a lot, growing in confidence with every shot and every drink he swallowed. He decided to slow down on the drinks when he found himself performing magic tricks, using real magic to pretend he was a pro at card and coin tricks. It was a slippery slope, though, to use his magic in public, especially when he was on his way to being drunk. Already, he could feel it boiling inside of him under the strength of Halloween, and he knew it was frustrated that he had chosen to dress up, eat sweets and drink cheap alcohol with strangers instead of going out to the woods to perform pagan rituals, like he was so _clearly_ meant to be doing because obviously, witches still did that in the 21st century.

The result of keeping his magic pent up on its strongest night was that little bursts of it would manifest beyond Harry’s control. For one, his glass was never empty despite his efforts to drain it. Louis’ wasn’t either, and Harry hoped with all his might that he wouldn’t question it. The lights kept flickering in and out whenever Harry laughed, that was more obvious and far more problematic because it couldn’t be blamed on the weather: the night was perfectly still, without a hint of wind or a shred of clouds. 

The biggest problem was that Harry’s presence was causing ghosts to manifest inside of the flat, and he worried that other people might be able to see them. All the situation needed to turn into a catastrophe was someone with a sensitivity to the paranormal. They were quiet ghosts, most of them coming from the churchyard nearby, and they seemed perfectly content to just pass through the building and its occupant on their way to wherever ghosts chose to go, yet Harry knew their presence was his fault. If a poltergeist decided to manifest itself, the resulting chaos would be on him.

Harry was pulled out of his thoughts when Louis slumped down on the couch next to him, leaning into him heavily.

“I’ll cuddle you, okay? I’m cold. It’s so cold in this room,” Louis muttered, curling up against Harry’s side.

“It’s the ghosts,” Harry replied, briefly looking away from the apparitions to glance at Louis.

Louis giggled. “Funny. Very gloomy. Good Halloween spirit.”

“No, I’m serious. Ghosts walk freely on Halloween. Some people can see them. I can.” He had no idea why he was being so brutally honest. It was just so easy to talk to Louis, he felt like he could tell him anything.

Louis straightened up, frowning. “Seriously? That’s—that’s terrifying, oh my god. There’s ghosts in the room right now?!”

Harry nodded. “But they’re friendly, don’t worry. They come from the churchyard around the corner. They’re old ghosts, they’re weak. They’re only passing through.”

“H-how come you see them?” Louis had shifted to sit on his legs and was staring at Harry with big, round eyes. “Have you always seen them?”

“I have, yeah. It’s… it’s a family thing. Sometimes I’ll see one or two every month or so, but on Halloween, it’s nonstop.”

“Where are they coming from, you said?” Far from scared, Louis looked thrilled.

“A churchyard nearby. It’s an old graveyard.”

“Do you want to go see it?”

Harry frowned. “You believe me?”

With a shrug, Louis got up and offered Harry his hand. “Sure, I believe you. I like to keep an open mind. Let’s go?”

Harry took the hand offered to him and let out a small, surprised laugh when Louis pulled him up to his feet. He hooked their arms together and Harry’s cheeks turned a bright shade of red.

They walked out of the party and into the cold night air, their coats haphazardly put on as they exited, and Louis kept a steady flow of talk as they made their way to the graveyard. Harry let the ghosts guide him in the right direction, always keeping upstream of the pale column they formed.

“This is quite Gothic,” Louis commented as he pushed open the rusted wrought-iron gate. He laughed, a bit nervously, and Harry wished he could conjure a flame in his hand to light the darkness that lay beyond the gate.

Even if nothing dead or undead in the graveyard could possibly hurt him, he was ill at ease to be so close to so many ghosts. It was chilling—in both sense of the word. They glided in between tombstones, pearly white and luminous yet creating no light beyond the boundaries of their diaphanous shapes. 

“Are they here?” Louis asked, voice hushed, almost reverent.

“All around us, yes.”

Louis moved in closer, taking hold of Harry’s arm, clinging tightly. “I’m scared,” he whispered. Harry wished he could see Louis’ face, but the dark was unforgiving.

“They can’t hurt you. They can’t touch us. It’s just like… memories. Nothing like in the movies. And you can’t see them, I mean, there’s no reason to be scared.”

“Still…” Louis said, moving even closer. “Hold me.”

Harry’s heart sped up as his mind ran wild with hope. He wrapped his arms around Louis’ shoulders and held his breath as Louis pressed up against him, resting his head against Harry’s chest.

“G-good?” Harry asked, gulping. He stroked Louis’ back a few times, and despite the cold air his face was burning.

“Perfect. I feel safe, now.”

Nodding, Harry let himself enjoy the moment for a little bit, closing his eyes; his mind wandered, wondering how Louis would react if he could see the ghosts. He felt it the moment his magic picked up the idea, like a full body shiver before he was filled with pins and needles, and before he could try and fix the mistake he’d made, he heard Louis let out a shriek.

“I see them! Holy shit, holy _shit_ , I see them! Harry! Why do I see them?! I thought you were making it up! Oh my god, holy shit, fuck!” Louis cried, working himself into a frenzy as he spun on his heels, staring at the flow of ghosts surrounding them. “I didn’t want to see them! How were you not just, like, endlessly screaming in terror all evening?!”

“I’m used to it. Hang on, I’ll…” Harry shut his eyes to try and focus on what he had to do, working at the catch in his magic like one would untie a stubborn knot, and after a moment Louis let out a shaky sigh. Harry opened his eyes. “Gone?”

“Gone. But, like… not. They’re still there, I just don’t see them. I think it’s worse.”

“They’re harmless,” Harry repeated, licking his lips, nervous. Any moment, now, Louis would ask what had happened.

“What—” Louis halted. “Why… I—I don’t know what question to ask.”

“It’s my fault you saw them.”

“Are you, like, a psychic? Like those on telly? Was it because I was touching you?”

“A medium, you mean? No, not at all. Nothing like that.”

“What, then? Was something wrong with the food at the party? Are we hallucinating?”

“No. You won’t believe me, if I tell you.”

“I just saw ghosts, Harry, fucking try me.”

With a sigh, Harry nodded to himself. He had already lost Louis when the love potion turned out to be a sham. He had nothing left to lose, he might as well come clean. As soon as he heard the confession, Louis would think that Harry was insane and that’d be the end of it. He would be free from his shameful, unrequited crush and life would go back to normal.

Holding his hands out, Harry conjured a ball of flames in it to light them. Louis let out a gasp as the fire came to life, eyes comically wide. 

“Wh—what?!” 

“I’m a witch,” Harry said, watching the flames dance in his hands rather than having to face Louis’ gaze. “So is my sister. And my mother, and her mother before her, and on and on, for generations.”

“A wizard, you mean.”

“No, a witch. Boys aren’t supposed to be so there’s no word for it.” Harry paused, frowning. “It’s the part you’re hung up on? The name?”

“Give me a break, it’s the only part I can process at the moment.” Louis sat heavily on a tombstone, unaware of what he was doing. “You’re a witch… Is it why you’re so weird?”

Bristled, Harry huffed. His frustration inflated the flames still cradled in his hands with a roar. “I’m not weird!”

“Please,” Louis said with a faint laugh. “You’re just—I don’t even think you’re aware that this is a date.”

Under Harry’s shock, the flames disappeared with a pop. To compensate, the moon seemed to shine brighter, casting a sickly white light on Louis, bright enough to allow Harry to see the look of amusement on his face.

“Yes, Harry, it’s a date. It must be our third, at least. Maybe fourth. I thought you were shy, but... you’re just bloody oblivious, aren’t you?”

“I mean…” Harry stuttered. “I gave you a… a love potion, but it wasn’t a real one in the end. I thought—I thought it was doomed.”

Louis burst out laughing, the noise sounding clear and loud and blasphemous in the cold night. “You what?! Oh, Harry. I’ve been trying to woo you since the moment I picked up your knickers from the stairs the day you moved in. _I_ thought it was doomed, you were so unresponsive.”

Harry shook his head. “No,” he let out, voice turned raspy under the onslaught of emotions that popped into his head like fireworks. A warm breeze swept through the graveyard, a direct manifestation of his joy. “Not at all.”

“So…” Louis began, pushing off the tombstone to walk closer to Harry. “Is this a date?”

“I… I suppose it is, yes.” 

“Only suppose?” Louis asked, walking closer still, tugging at Harry’s scarf. “Does it mean I can do this?” 

Before Harry had time to brace himself for it, Louis leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips. Harry’s magic swelled inside of him until he felt it would spill, making his entire body tingle and his skin feel too tight for his body. Louis’ lips were soft against Harry’s, tender like he knew, instinctively, that it was Harry’s first kiss. The gust of warm wind from earlier came again, this time strong enough to create a whirlwind of leaves around them, and the moment Harry felt his magic brimming out of him, the moment he kissed Louis back, Louis pulled back with a gasp. The leaves fell back to the ground in a musty-smelling shower.

“What was that?” he asked in a white voice, shaking out his limbs. “I’m numb all over!”

“That was my magic, I’m sorry. I… I think some of it spilled in you. I don’t… control it very well.”

“So, you’re really a witch?” Louis came closer as he spoke, placing his hands on Harry’s shoulders.

“Do you know a lot of people who can conjure flames in their hands?”

With a giggle, Louis shook his head, his eyes crinkled. “Do witches like kissing, then? Or do they just make failed love potions and scare their dates with ghosts?”

“Hey! The potion was made properly! It just wasn’t a real one!”

“Harry, just kiss me, will you?”

And perhaps Harry still couldn’t quite make his magic listen to him, but kissing, he could do, and as the witching hours descended upon them and Harry’s power was at its strongest, he kissed and kissed and kissed Louis until the keeper ushered them out with curses.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated if you liked it. I thrive on external validation.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr [here](http://scrunchyharry.tumblr.com) and get fic updates [here](http://scrunchyharrywrites.tumblr.com/).
> 
> If you liked it, reblog the [photoset](http://scrunchyharrywrites.tumblr.com/post/152446503154/taken-by-the-wind-by-lightofathousandstars-when-he) and make me a very happy girl.
> 
> p.s.: the love potion recipe comes from [here](http://everydayroots.com/love-potion).


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